


Not Your Fault

by nompoetique



Series: The Ghostly Rejects [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nompoetique/pseuds/nompoetique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk remembers when his brother was alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Your Fault

**Author's Note:**

> So this is Dirk's POV, set the night after John told him Dave is still hanging around.

You lay on your bed, gazing up at the ceiling but not seeing it.  You’re antsy, you want to be moving, doing something, but no, apparently you’re a useless piece of shit today.  You tried working on AR earlier only to end up staring at the goddamned thing for fifteen minutes.  So you’re laying here in the dark, digging your nails into your palms and desperately trying not to think about Dave. 

Dave, he’d been in the room with you.  He could see you, and listen to your voice, but you could only stare at John, watching that blue eyed bastard smile and laugh, respond to comments you couldn’t hear, and you could only fucking stare and wish you could see what he was seeing. 

Has Dave grown?  Is he different now?  Or does he look the same as he had at sixteen, gangly and unbalanced, all long limbs and no muscle?

Does he still have scars?  Is he happy?  Does he miss you? 

Or does he hate you?

He should hate you. 

You grit your teeth, draping an arm over your eyes.  Thinking about it isn’t helpful, but you can’t stop now, you’re too far gone and all you can picture is your little brother.

 

Dave at two, a giggly toddler with a round face and sticky fingers always tagging along behind you, his grabby hands reaching for your shades.  ‘Dirk’ was his first word. 

 

Dave at six, barging into your room and flopping onto your bed, hanging his head off the side to stare at you upside down.

“Dirk, why’d you always wear sunglasses?  Even inside?”

“You know why, moron,” was your reply.  Dave was always asking that, over and over.

“But then why don’t I gotta wear glasses?”

“You can if you want to,” you shrugged, glancing at him.  His fine hair was hanging straight down and all the blood had rushed to his head.  A grin lit his face.

“Really?  Can I get some just like yours?”

 

Dave at nine, waiting outside your highs school when you had to stay after for detention the second time that week.  He was sitting against the brick wall and stood when he saw you, brushing off his pants.

“Mom says you’re in trouble,” he told you matter-of-factly.

You ignored him, tugging your hood to hide your face.  You hoped he wouldn’t ask a million questions for once.  Kicking at rocks in your path, you trudged toward your neighborhood.  He followed, skipping every other step to keep up with you.

“Why’d you get detention so much, Dirk?”

“’Cause they can’t handle my sick levels of irony,” you deadpanned.  You didn’t want to tell him you had beaten the shit out of some asshole who kept calling you a ‘useless fucking faggot’.

Dave nodded thoughtfully, not saying anything, staring at his shoes.

“Then why’d you have a black eye?”  You stopped briefly, guilt making your stomach plummet.

Shit, you had forgotten about that.  Mom would flip.

You were pulled from your panic when wiry arms wrapped around your waist like a vice, Dave’s face pressed into your back.  You could feel the outline of his pointed shades against your spine.

“Love you, Dirk,” he said, voice muffled.  You just held still until he let go, unsure of what else to do.

“You’re such a fuckin’ softy, you lil’ shit,” you tell him, ruffling his hair when he released you.  It poked up at all angles, still downy and childish, and he stuck his tongue out at you.  A second later you slung an arm across his shoulders.

“Love you too, Dave.”   

 

Dave at ten, sitting beside you in the backseat of a stranger’s car on your way to your new foster home.  He stared out the window blankly during the uncomfortable ride, his empty expression matching yours.  He finally seemed to have mastered the poker face you’d been teaching him.

 

 Dave at thirteen, when you caught him alone in his room, hunched over his laptop and genuine laughter shaking his shoulders.

“Who’re you talking to?” you had asked, eyebrows practically touching your hairline.  He jumped, flushing quickly.

“None of your goddamn business,” he groused, snapping the screen shut.

“What’s her name?” 

He glared at you, but his deepening color contradicted him.

“Jade,” he muttered, ducking his head.  You watched in amusement as the blush crawled down his neck. 

You threw condoms at him and he flipped you off, but that was the first time in months you had seen him smile. 

 

Dave at fifteen, sulking for days before finally approaching you with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

He slouched up to your tool bench, rubbing the back of his neck and scuffing his shoes.  They squeaked, leaving a black mark on the garage floor.

“What, Dave?” you snapped.

“Why don’t you blame me?  I killed them.”

You had almost dropped the screwdriver you were holding, staring at him in shock before fixing him with your best Disapproving Big Brother Face, as if that would force him to accept your words.

“Remember how possession works, dumbass?  It wasn’t you and it wasn’t your fucking fault.”

He looked at you, shrugged, looked away.  

 

Dave at sixteen, taunting you in a voice that wasn’t his, smiling over you as his fist connected with your nose over and over and over.  Laughing, raging, kicking you until you heard your ribs crack and you were coughing up blood, strings dripping from your mouth, gushing from your nose, painting the floor bright red.

Your blind, possessive fury, blacking out your mind with a single thought, a single drive.

_Give me back my brother._

Dave’s face when you stabbed him, the katana sliding between his ribs easily, smoothly. 

His wide eyes, his wet gasp.  His dying words, rasped out between rattling breaths.

“You’ll burn for your sins.”

You couldn’t tell if it was the demon talking, or him. 

You stroked his hair until his eyes closed, his head cradled in your lap, and then sat with your forehead pressed to his unmoving chest, his blood seeping through your jeans, until your baby bro was cold in your arms.

 

You choke as the memories release you, struggling to pull yourself back from this edge.

_There’s no blood, there’s no demon.  Dave’s not here._

_Dave’s not here._  

You’re shaking uncontrollably, burning tears streaking down your face.  You can’t even care.  You cry until you fall asleep. 


End file.
